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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24948295">Where the Hearts Are Rotted Out</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maimat/pseuds/Maimat'>Maimat</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Crookback Bog, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Mess, M/M, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion, The Ladies of the Woods</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:40:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,307</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24948295</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maimat/pseuds/Maimat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking the route through Crookback Bog has its risks. So does Jaskier's making fun of the shrine to the Ladies of the Wood. Illness, curses, wraiths, and ancient hags lurk in the fog. </p><p>Or it could be a regular human cold.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>73</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>279</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Fog</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title taken from the poem, ‘in The Stump Of The Old Tree...’ by Hugh Sykes Davies</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier woke from a dream about swallowing glass, only to discover his subconscious hadn't been that far off. Bollocks. A few too many wet days and cold nights on the road would give anyone a sore throat.  </p><p>He was fine. <em>Fine. </em> </p><p>Jaskier coughed. He gargled an infusion of honey and cloves. The cup of hot water and herbs Geralt brewed soothed some of the scratchiness. <em>Not now.</em> He didn’t have time to get sick. </p><p>“You’re quiet.”  </p><p>"Does my voice sound different to you?" Jaskier asked, then coughed again in a failed attempt to clear whatever was in it. "Oooh, though it is a little deeper isn't it. <em>Throaty.</em> Maybe not all bad then." He took a deep breath. <em>"There once was a-"</em></p><p>"Don't you think you should save your voice?" </p><p>Jaskier grinned. "Oh no. You'll like this one. <em>There once was a maiden of tricks, who swore she could handle five pricks, she said with a cry as she pulled out her glass eye, ‘Now I can handle six!’"</em></p><p>He started coughing again as he laughed at the look on Geralt's face. "Don't pretend to be a prude. I've known you too long. You liked it, I can tell." </p><p>"If you don't rest your voice, it will stay like that."     </p><p>“Not true. Though, if it did, we could form a duet." Jaskier cleared his throat again and took another sip of the herbal water. "Have no fear. My voice will be back to its normally resonant self soon enough." </p><p>It wasn’t. The ache in his throat spread down into his chest. </p><p>As they headed south the trees thinned and grew crooked postures. Standing water lay in patches. The afternoon air grew humid. The fog, sticky and moist, clung to his skin. Pungent scents of decay gorged Jaskier’s nose, overwhelming any other scent. Even after growing used to the odor he remained one deep breath away from gagging.  </p><p>“... so I’m just saying when you have the choice between a—oh, what the fuck.” Jaskier nearly tripped in his effort to cross to the other side of the path. What if his first instinct was to put as much distance between himself and the <em>ears hanging from the branches.</em> Not that crossing the road did any good. The damn things were there too. “Geralt?” </p><p>Ears. </p><p>Human ears. Non-human ears would be bad too, but maybe just a little less horrifying.</p><p>They hung from strings, dangling. </p><p>Geralt studied the grisly display. “The trees have ears.” </p><p>“Ha,” Jaskier let out the sound in a puff of air. “Ha, ha. No.” Joking about it didn’t lessen the horror of the gruesome display. </p><p>“They’re enchanted,” Geralt added. “Whoever put them here is listening.”  </p><p>Not a joke then, lovely. Great, that made everything so much worse. “Hag? Ear hag? Is that a thing?”  </p><p>“Stay close. Be quiet.”  </p><p>Oh. Being quiet wasn’t going to be an issue. “Can they really hear us? Who can hear us?” On second thought, silence was overrated; he had <em>questions. </em></p><p>“We’ll be in Downwarren soon.”  </p><p>Jaskier walked closer, so close that Geralt placed a hand on his shoulder and sternly nudged him an arm’s breadth away. </p><p>“Drowners,” Geralt explained. “I’ll need room to maneuver if they attack.”  </p><p>Not talking meant listening. And listening led to hearing all the sloshing and creaking going on in the misty woods off the path he couldn't see. Fuck. “Geralt,” he whispered. </p><p>“No.” </p><p>Well. </p><p>They trudged on, and thankfully Geralt’s swords stayed sheathed. “What’s that ahead?” Jaskier asked and waved toward an odd shrine built to the side. Melted candles lined the base, along with offerings of wrapped cakes and vegetables. And a bowl of... were those entrails? Most striking, however, was the carved statue. A ghoulish figure of an old woman, mouth open like a wraith, tits hanging down to her knees.  “What is it?” </p><p>“A representation.” </p><p>“Of nightmares, maybe.” </p><p>“Locals call them the Ladies of the Woods.” </p><p>Jaskier allowed a dramatic shiver to crawl up his spine as he glanced around, almost expecting one of those Ladies to be lurking in the shadows. “Ladies with an ear fetish? I prefer deities who are content with offerings of coin and fake prayers rather than body parts.”  </p><p>“The Ladies of the Woods aren’t deities,” Geralt insisted. </p><p>“No,” Jaskier conceded easily. “Monsters are monsters; worshipping them doesn’t change what they are.”</p><p>The hollowed-out eyes of the statue pulled Jaskier’s attention. The blackness of the depths went beyond the scope of a simple wood carving. A well with no bottom, falling forever. A whisper of wind like breath swept past his ear. The air grew heavy, thick in his nose and chest. Sweat trickled down his forehead, into his eyes, dripped down his neck. His clothes hung limp with damp and cold. </p><p>“There is tainted power in the air. We should turn around. Take the long way around the bog,” Geralt said. </p><p>The tone of Geralt’s voice startled Jaskier out of whatever fascination those pit-like eyes had held on him. He looked away. Fuck, but the statue was unsettling. </p><p>Geralt started leading Roach to turn around. “We’ll double back. The innkeeper in Lurch seemed impressed with your talents.” </p><p>“Oh, yes. The innkeeper was extremely impressed with my talent-- the innkeeper's wife, not so much.” Jaskier laughed. He still had a bruise on his bottom from the broom the woman had swung at him. “Geralt, it’s never a good idea to return to a crowd that’s already taken its pleasure.”</p><p>“If you refrained from bestowing so much of your <em>pleasure</em> on your crowds, you wouldn’t need me to guard your back so often.”</p><p>“Fair.” Jaskier grinned and winked. “But I do have such a lovely back. You’d miss it.” But he didn’t get the rise out of Geralt he was looking for. The witcher stared at the statue as well. “You’re not afraid of an old crone, are you? Geralt?” </p><p>“No.” </p><p>“It should at least be good for a story, don’t you think? What did you say is the next town?”</p><p>“Downwarren.” </p><p>“It’s, what, at least a week-long detour if we go around?” </p><p>“If we make good time.”</p><p>“Downwarren it is then.”  Jaskier knew he’d won, for now. He didn’t want to be the reason Geralt missed plucking his <em>special flowers</em>. Herbs only found in a specific location on the first new moon of midsummer, or something like that. </p><p>Geralt could travel faster without him. Jaskier had to be honest with himself; he was no longer in his twenties. Years were starting to add up, as they did for any normal human. He couldn’t expect to revel the entire night and wake up refreshed and ready to set out on the road at dawn. Walking ten hours a day at a brisk pace guaranteed waking with a myriad of aches and pains in the morning. A shortcut through a creepy bog to avoid an extra week of hard travel was well worth the smell of rotten-eggs and sulfur in the air.</p><p>Tendrils of fog slithered along the path. Jaskier watched the wisps of it curl as he kept up a brisk pace to match Geralt’s.  </p><p>How many more seasons could he keep up? Jaskier had passed from being the youngest to win prizes at festivals to being a <em>seasoned performer</em>. He’d spent a good part of the winter as a guest lecturer educating eager young students on the Safety of Bardic Travel, for fuck’s sake. </p><p><em>Find a travelling companion, </em>he’d told them. <em>Join a caravan. </em>There was security in numbers. All the worst moments in his life had been times he traveled alone. There was a reason he’d latched onto Geralt so many years ago, and it wasn’t only about inspiration. When they were together, Jaskier never went hungry after performing to an apathetic crowd, never needed to charm a friendly widow into allowing him into her bed when he didn’t have enough coin for a room at the inn. </p><p>Most of all, with Geralt, he wasn’t lonely. </p><p>The mist grew thicker. It swept up around him, curling around his legs. Jaskier swallowed around an uncomfortable thickness in his throat. When the inevitable time came for Geralt to discover that Jaskier could no longer keep up, Jaskier didn’t know what he’d do. He still travelled alone when necessary, but always with the knowledge that his and Geralt’s paths would intertwine. </p><p>Vapor slid along Jaskier’s skin like hundreds of damp fingers. Had he really been so lost in maudlin thoughts that he hadn’t noticed the mist surrounding him completely?</p><p>“Geralt?” Jaskier whispered. The fog closed in as Jaskier reached out for Roach’s saddle, anything to grip on to. When had the mist grown so thick?  </p><p>And a hand grabbed his wrist. Jaskier gasped, flinched and tried to pull away, but the grip held.</p><p>Geralt’s hand was cool against his skin, strong. The murky haze receded with unnatural ease. </p><p>“Fuck. <em>Fuck.”</em> What kind of fog was that?” </p><p>“Stay with me,” Geralt stood tense, body poised to defend and attack. </p><p>Jaskier sank to his knees even as the darkness lifted from his mind. He grasped Geralt’s arm with his other hand and held on with all his strength, afraid that if he lost that anchor, he’d be lost again. </p><p>Geralt pulled him up, dragged him forward. “I’ve got you.”  </p><p>But the fog creeped in again just as fast as it had gone, despite Geralt's hold. It wrapped around Jaskier more forcefully, more insistently than before. Every weakness, every inadequacy rushed to the surface, and flayed Jaskier's defences to the core. He bled helplessness. Suffocated on it. Jaskier choked on his own frailty.</p><p>“<em>Jaskier,</em>” Geralt’s voice, a <em>word</em> in his mind. “<em>Rest.</em>” The command enveloped him, soothing, calming, sweeping away all else until he knew no more. </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Fever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier stared up at a rather dilapidated roof.</p><p>The last bits of daylight snuck in through the window, and a single candle burned on the windowsill, illuminating the interior just enough to see the surroundings. Jaskier felt cold. It clung to him, and he shivered, but a warm hand gripped the back of his neck and lifted his head. Hot liquid soothed a thirst he hadn't realised he had. </p><p>"Jaskier?" Geralt asked at his side. </p><p><em>Yes,</em> he wanted to answer. <em>I hear you. I know you're with me. </em>But he only had energy enough for a muted groan. </p><p>Geralt's hand, familiar and calloused, folded over his, holding steady.  </p><p>"Slow," Geralt's voice warned, but he helped Jaskier sit up. The position change did not go well, and Jaskier took quick, shallow breaths to combat vertigo. It got better. Jaskier drank more of the tea Geralt offered. </p><p>"Downwarren?" Jaskier croaked. </p><p>"No. Too far. I found a hunting shack." </p><p>Jaskier coughed hard, breath stolen from his lungs in convulsive bursts until he bent double from the pain in his chest. Each inhale felt like gargling gravel. His ribs ached, and he felt cold all the way through. Even the heavy blanket Geralt pulled up over his shoulders did nothing against the chill. </p><p>There'd been the fog, and trying to breathe, and then Geralt's voice intruding his mind. "Did you<em> axii</em> me?"</p><p>At least Geralt had the sense to look ashamed. "I needed to break the fog's hold over you. Jaskier."</p><p>Not an apology, but as far as excuses went, Jaskier accepted it. The handful of times Geralt had used <em>axii</em> on him in the past, all of them were memories Jaskier would like to have scrubbed from his consciousness, and all but one, Jaskier considered justified. But he'd forgiven Geralt for that long ago, and it was easy to forgive Geralt for resorting to the mind-bending magic now. Even in memory, Jaskier had to resist the tendril of fear creeping upon him at the thought of the fog.</p><p>"You're ill," Geralt stated somberly.</p><p>Jaskier hated when Geralt's voice took that tone. It was the one he reserved for telling women they were widows, for telling loved ones the contract Geralt had taken had ended with a corpse, not a rescue. </p><p>Geralt's finger brushed along Jaskier's neck, then he took Jaskier's hands, turned them over to inspect his wrists and lower arms.</p><p>Jaskier pushed Geralt's hand away. "It's not the southern fever." Another outbreak had started to spread northwards over the winter. The neck and wrists were common areas to find the distinctive rash indicating the disease. </p><p>There were no telltale signs of rash around his wrists or neck, as Jaskier knew there wouldn't be. You couldn't get the fever twice. "Just a cold. I'm fine."  </p><p>"You're not fine."</p><p>Jaskier drew the blanket tight around his shoulders against the chill in the air. "So? Give me a day," he coughed again, pressing the heel of his hand to his chest to keep his lungs from bursting forth in a bloody mess. "Ow. Or two."  </p><p>Geralt's eyes crinkled, as though smelling something rotten. Was it him? Jaskier half stretched and gave himself a quick whiff. No worse than any other day on the road without bathing.</p><p>"You need a healer," Geralt concluded. </p><p>Coming from the man who claimed a gutting was merely a scratch. That was rich. "I'm not going to waste my coin on an old bone-reader to tell me I need to gargle honey and cloves." Jaskier laughed. The itch in his throat intensified again, and he had to stop and clear his throat. "I've already had the fever. I'll be fine in a few days."</p><p>"You were ill last winter?" </p><p>"A scholar returning from Beauclair brought it back with her. Half of Oxenfurt took sick last winter." They'd lost a quarter of Oxenfurt's professors before the epidemic had run its course. Jaskier had lost too many friends and mentors in the past year. But. He wasn't old yet; his health had returned, the city recovered, life went on as it always did—just another profitable year for the gravediggers.  </p><p>"The bog isn't a place for outsiders." </p><p>Jaskier coughed into his elbow. Exhaustion pulled at him, made his eyes feel heavy. </p><p>What would he do if he couldn't travel anymore? He had an open invitation for a position in the Countess de Stael's household to teach her children the arts of prose and history. Or there was the offer from Oxenfurt to sign on as a resident professor.  </p><p>Contemplating either option nurtured the distasteful lump to of misery growing in his gut.</p><p>"Tell me the ears dangling from trees out there are just a local oddity, not some madman attacking weary travelers."  </p><p>"It's no madman." </p><p>"Okay, so maybe that's not as comforting as I thought. But can I assume my ears are safe?" </p><p>"It's a local custom. Tribute to the Ladies."  </p><p>"Tribute, of course." Talking was no fun like this. He cleared his throat and took a sip of the water to smooth the raspy catch in his throat. "You'd think they'd at least choose something easy on the eyes to worship."</p><p>"It's a far older legend than you're aware."</p><p>"So long as they're not the sort to sacrifice erstwhile troubadours to their bog monsters. Maybe I'll stay in the town. Rest. Recuperate. Romance a barmaid and her boyfriend. Don't worry. I'll be discrete. Go to your grove and pick your flowers, I'll meet up with you after."  </p><p>"I thought you wanted to see the Olena's Grove for yourself?"</p><p>Jaskier would love to visit Oleana's Grove in person. He'd heard an ode to the fields of flowers while studying the classics in Oxenfurt, fields of shimmering rainbows waving in a sunlit breeze. Olena's Grove was a place of myth and mystery. A doomed love affair between a nymph and a hunter. But Jaskier had learned to pick his battles. They'd need to travel hard. He'd hoped he was up to it, but now that seemed unlikely. "Tell me all about it when you get back. Take notes. I want every detail."  </p><p>"The Ladies of the Woods are dangerous."</p><p>"Aren't all monsters? I met a woman who swore she had a house spirit protecting her home. She left fresh milk out at night and talked and sang to it constantly. Swore that so long as she kept the spirit content, only good luck would befall her. And then one night, she accidentally left out sour milk instead of fresh, and they found her in the morning with her eyes plucked out, and daisies shoved down her throat. Everything is dangerous."</p><p>Geralt cast him a skeptical look.</p><p>Smile firmly fixed in place, Jaskier continued. "But, who am I to say or judge how anyone enacts their beliefs? I firmly believe no harm will ever come to me so long as there's another ballad to write, and I assure you I've got an entire repertoire waiting to be composed."</p><p>"Jaskier, this isn't—"</p><p>"Oh, did I ever tell you about the elf I met in Novigrad? He makes the finest doublets, and at a good price, too. Anyway, he always wanted to be a doppler—" </p><p>"Does this story have a point?"  </p><p>"Not particularly." Jaskier laughed, and it turned into a cough, He needed a minute before he could continue. If Novigrad exploits weren't working to derail the conversation and distract Geralt, he knew what would. Jaskier's so-called muse and often professed love of his life, Countess de Stael, was always fodder for another rousing tale, and a sure-fire method to exasperate Geralt in the quickest way possible. "The Countess de Stael steals her lovers' buttons. She has an entire jar full. Not that buttons compare to ears, but I started a new fashion trend when not one of my doublets had a single button left on them—"</p><p>"Why do you always do this?" the witcher asked. </p><p>"Do what?" Jaskier grinned. He should have known mentioning the Countess would work. </p><p>"Do you really want to stay in Downwarren?"</p><p>No, of course, he didn't. But as it stood, how else could he deal with the misfortune of being sick without dragging Geralt down with him? Jaskier didn't want to argue; he just wanted to get his way. "As soon as my voice is back up to snuff, I'll regale the villagers of Downwarren with enchanting evenings of fine musical arts and enrich my purse with their coin."</p><p>Geralt made an irritated grunt and walked out. Presumably, to check on Roach. The smile slipped from Jaskier's lips, and he lay back down on his side. <em>Fuck</em>. His chest hurt with every draw of breath. </p><p>Anticipating another summer of travel and adventure had been foremost in his mind through the long and dismal winter. Getting sick in a fucking bog wasn't part of the plan. </p><p>A floorboard creaked to his left. Jaskier blinked. No one was there. Rats maybe? A dark puddle on the floor drew his attention. Blood? It looked wet, fresh. Had Geralt been hurt? Jaskier leaned forward, reached out to touch it, but his fingers only brushed the dry floor. He could have sworn it was wet only moments ago. A trick of the light? Or his head? His brain throbbed behind his eyes, and the light around him grew dim.  </p><p>The door swung open, and Geralt stomped in, shoving a mug forward. "Drink this. Get some more rest." The witcher's gracefulness of movement usually resulted in him moving quieter than a cat. Crashing around like a rock troll indicated Jaskier's attempt to be a pain the ass was working.</p><p>Jaskier hated letting Geralt see him so weak and pathetic. He reached for the cup, but movement at the edge of his vision drew his attention. Had the door opened again? </p><p>No. Geralt would have noticed, just as Geralt would have seen the woman standing at the shack's window, staring out.</p><p>"Who are you?" Jaskier asked the intruder.</p><p>Geralt frowned. "Jaskier, I'm in no mood for your games."</p><p>"Not you, <em>her</em>."</p><p>That didn't help to lessen Geralt's frown any. He crouched beside the bed and placed his hand on Jaskier's forehead. </p><p>"Geralt?" Jaskier leaned into the touch. </p><p>"You're too warm." The hand withdrew. Because, of course, it did.</p><p>Warm was the last word Jaskier would use to describe how he felt. Again, he pulled the blanket closer around his shoulders. "It's freezing in here. Do you think the stove in the corner still works?" His voice sounded like he'd been singing for an entire evening without a break. He cleared his throat to try speaking again, but before any words could form, his chest spasmed. Overcome with the need to both cough and breathe, his traitorous body attempted to do both, and accomplished neither. </p><p><em>Fuck.</em> The vice tightened around Jaskkier's his chest, he couldn't draw air, couldn't do anything. Hands settled on his shoulder for a moment, stayed with him until he managed to force his lungs to cooperate again. Geralt said something, but Jaskier only heard the roar of his blood thumping in his ears. Then Geralt left. Jaskier understood, Geralt was too stoic to be comfortable watching Jaskier come apart at the seams, but the loss felt like an extra stab to the heart, nonetheless. Jaskier wrapped his arms around his aching ribs, only glad he could breathe again. Exhaustion pulled on him. Dragged him down. He heard Geralt's voice outside, talking to Roach. The normalcy of it was soothing. And he slept. </p><p><em>"He's not coming." </em> </p><p>"Who?" Jaskier woke up, confused. Sun shone through the window; crows squawked. He could have sworn he heard a woman's voice, but no one was there. Broken glass-lined his throat. Extra layers of blankets had been placed over him, but it did nothing against the chill in his body. He was alone. An old weathered chair had been pulled up beside the bed, a mug of something on the seat. Jaskier took shallow breaths as he sat up. The cup was warm. It smelled of spices and honey, but the honey did not mask the bitter taste. He drank it anyway. It felt like swallowing knives with every sip.  </p><p>The door to the shack opened. "You're awake," Geralt stated and stood in the doorway. </p><p>"I am."  </p><p>Geralt entered. Jaskier wanted to tell Geralt it was just a stupid cold. It wasn't a big deal. He'd be fine.</p><p>Jaskier took another sip of the tea. "It helps, thanks." If anything, his voice only sounded worse than earlier. The sexy-raspy quality of the morning before was gone; this was all frogs. Broken and strained. He tried to clear his throat again. "Downwarren. We should go. So you can move on." Much more of this and he was going to start speaking in half sentences as Geralt did. Just imagine: the two of them barely speaking for days on end, until finally, they communicated in only grunts and hums.  </p><p>"Are you alright?" Geralt asked. </p><p>What should have been a laugh came out more like a choke, which gave Jaskier the urge to laugh even more. He held up his hand and waved Geralt off when he stepped forward. "Fine. S'funny. I sound like you."  </p><p>"I sound better." Geralt grinned, but not for long. "Are you well enough to ride?"  </p><p>He'd thought he was until he stood up. The room swayed unsteadily under his feet, and if it weren't for Geralt lunging forward to scoop his arm under Jaskier's shoulder, he'd be on the ground. </p><p>"Take it easy," Geralt soothed and walked him forward. A shock of warm air swept over him as they exited. The still waters made no sound other than the sloshing of small animals and distant gurgling. </p><p>The light notes of a young woman's laughter sounded muffled in the heavy air.   </p><p>"Geralt." Jaskier tried to twist toward the sound coming from the boggy woods. There she was, a figure slipped around an old knotted and twisted tree, and though she skipped through the bog, the surface tension remained undisturbed around her. </p><p>"Do you hear her?" Jaskier asked.</p><p>In one swift movement, Geralt shoved Jaskier behind his back as he drew his silver sword. Jaskier stumbled, falling back against Roach's side as she let out a disgruntled snort and twisted to nip his shoulder. </p><p>"Hear who?" Geralt paused. </p><p>The movement was enough to set off another violent bout of coughing, continuing until dark spots danced in front of his eyes, and Roach shifted nervously beside him. Geralt turned and quickly brought Roach back under control. </p><p>"There's nothing out there." Geralt informed him once the coughing was relatively under control again.</p><p>"There," Jaskier pointed just beyond the tree.   </p><p>Geralt followed Jaskier's directions. He sloshed in the water, walking around the tree, and passed right through her. </p><p>Jaskier blinked. "She's right there, don't you see her?" But his panic started rising. </p><p>Geralt glared. Fuck. That face, the disgruntled face Geralt reserved to direct his way at only the most witless of moments. Did Geralt think he was lying? He wasn't. He would never. Well, no, that wasn't true. He was a bard; lying was part of the job description. But not to Geralt. At least, not about big things. </p><p>And a creepy invisible woman wandering around in a bog felt pretty big. </p><p>"I'm taking you to the healer now." Geralt scooped him up around the waist and hoisted him over his shoulder. Would he be forgiven if he puked down Geralt's back? Next came the saddle. Upright, thankfully, Geralt mounted behind him and tucked his arm around Jaskier's waist to hold him firmly in place. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Curse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was an ongoing joke between Jaskier and Geralt about wanting to ride Roach. It’d been going on for years. Jaskier would suggest it was his turn, Geralt would grumble a few words resembling, <em>no fucking chance,</em> and usually end up dismounting to walk at Jaskier’s side. The joke worked because he knew Geralt wouldn’t agree. He could ride, but he preferred to limit it to times of dire need.</p><p>Jaskier’s grand accomplishment for the current endeavor was maintaining consciousness. The bog passed in a swirl of time and space. The laughter of the woman he’d seen by the tree continued to ring in his ears.</p><p>“I’m hallucinating, aren’t I?”  </p><p>“Shut up.”  </p><p>So, admittedly, Geralt’s bedside manner lacked finesse. This wasn't the first time Jaskier had been sick on the road, obviously. But he was usually better at hiding it. Years of performing had helped hone that skill. Standing in front of crowds pretending to be confident and composed, singing until his voice was hoarse, acting as if the smells of stew and sausage didn’t make him ache when innkeepers offered complimentary meals only after a performance. </p><p>How, an observer may ask, did he enact this ruse of constant wellness? It was simple, really. When Jaskier knew he couldn't keep up his image of health and vitality, he’d explain to Geralt that he was tired of dirt, wanted a real bath, and would prefer to make a stop at the nearest town with an inn. After that, it was easy enough to claim that the crowd had been particularly delightful and generous with their coin, and he'd rather stay for a while and soak in the atmosphere. </p><p>Mere mortal concerns, like crow's feet around the eyes and the odd grey hair sneaking in around his temple, were bad enough. Geralt was acquainted with a wide assortment of qualified companions; sorceresses, exotic warriors, and fellow witchers, all far more qualified than Jaskier to aid Geralt on his path. How Jaskier had ever convinced Geralt to allow a simple bard to fill that role was one of the grand mysteries of existence.</p><p>And so, when the threat of mortal frailty loomed, Jaskier would find a relatively safe place to restore his health, and Geralt would move on after a brief farewell. <em>“Keep your feet clean.”</em> An odd saying, truly, but thanks to an elderly professor in the Oxenfurt library, Jaskier had learned it meant<em> ‘don’t get in trouble.’</em> Clean feet indeed. </p><p>He often found that it didn't take long to cross paths again once he got back on the road. As an attentive eavesdropper, Jaskier could always catch the rumors of monsters and their hunters, and from there, it was only a matter of finding each other again. This time would be no different.</p><p>As they approached Downwarren, Jaskier saw guards barring access to the series of planks and platforms forming the road into the village. Geralt drew Roach to a halt when the guards refused to move and grant entry. </p><p>“We need a healer.” Geralt bellowed. </p><p>Jaskier needed off the horse. Now that they had stopped, swaying this far up off the ground felt the equivalent to being tossed about at sea. Geralt seemed to get the message. He dismounted and assisted Jaskier in an entirely uncoordinated tumble. It was only Geralt’s grip that kept him upright. Vomiting was still an option, but at least now Roach would be safe. Slow, steady breaths. </p><p>A guard stepped up; halberd tipped forward. Ha, as if that would be any match for the Witcher.</p><p>“Shut up,” Geralt mumbled into his ear.</p><p>Oh, oops. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken. What he really wanted very much was to sit down. That part, he hoped he did voice, and Geralt loosened his grip around Jaskier's arm enough to let him sit down. </p><p>The guard pointed the tip of the halberd at Jaskier. “That man is sick.” </p><p>Oh, so they had one of the smart ones here. Brilliant. </p><p>“A healer. Now.” Geralt insisted in his scary voice--a thing of beauty. Jaskier would immortalize it in a song if he thought he could do it justice. Geralt’s hand briefly squeezed his shoulder. Oh, had he said that aloud as well? He really had to be more careful with his internal dialogue. </p><p>“We don’t need the fever here. He’s not our problem.”  </p><p>Fuck. It was as if no one ever got sick with anything other than southern fever anymore. Geralt pushed Jaskier’s sleeve up his arm. “No rash. It’s not the fever. Let us pass.” </p><p>“Fuck off,” the guard shouted. </p><p>The other guard turned and spoke to someone who ran into the town. Reinforcements. Great. Instead of dying of fever, he could die by spear. Thanks, Geralt. Helpful. But instead of reinforcements, an elderly woman walked up to the gate. She approached warily, a keen eye fixed on the witcher. </p><p>“I am Thecla, cunning woman of Downwarren. What business do you have here?”</p><p>“Help us, please,” Geralt requested and stepped aside.</p><p>Thecla crouched at Jaskier’s side for a closer look. Jaskier couldn’t help staring, a milky film shrouded pale blue iris’s, but not yet advanced enough to rob her of her sight completely. High cheekbones, a sturdy chin. He could see she’d been beautiful when she was young. Years, however, had chiseled a permanent frown around her mouth. The bags under her eyes painted a picture of heartbreak and sorrow. </p><p>She grabbed Jaskier’s hand in a much stronger grip than Geralt had and twisted his arm around to inspect his wrist and forearm. </p><p>“<em>Ow.</em>” And he’d thought Geralt’s bedside manner had lacked refinement. “Honorable Matron, if I may impose upon your goodwill to allow me a few days to recover in your town’s elegant inn, I’d be ever so grateful."  Maybe she would see reason? </p><p>Or not. She spat in the dirt and stirred it with her fingers in it to form a glob of mud and reached for Jaskier’s face. No way, he attempted to duck away, but she grabbed his chin and swept the mud across his brow. Ugh.</p><p>Whatever she saw there turned her stony look to one of fear. "The Good Ladies have claimed him. Leave the remains as an offering at the ruined tower to set the spirit free."  </p><p>"It's just a fucking cold. I'll be fine." Jaskier tried to rub away the mess on his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.</p><p>“You will find no help from us here, Witcher. The cost of defying the Good Ladies is dear.”  </p><p>Jaskier tried to suppress the need to cough and failed. His next song would be about an inhospitable village in a bog that rotted and dwindled to nothing because of turning away travelers in need. </p><p>Geralt pulled a pouch out of Roach’s saddlebag. "If there's something you have that can help heal him, I'll pay. Whatever you ask." That pouch--it was the coin they’d set aside to use towards purchasing rare herbs Geralt couldn’t find on his own at Olena’s Grove. Herbs Geralt needed for making his special witcher-potions. It wasn't to be wasted.</p><p>The coin proved to be a powerful incentive, and the size of the pouch was enough to convince the old woman to give Jaskier another look. “Did the sickness grip him gradual or sudden?”</p><p>Jaskier cleared his throat to answer. “It was—” </p><p>“Sudden,” Geralt answered for him. </p><p>"I'll sell you a remedy for corpse-lung. That’s all I will do. Take your sickness elsewhere."  </p><p>Jaskier frowned. "Corpse-lung? What’s that?" </p><p>Geralt placed a hand on his shoulder. "A fungal spore. Grows on lung tissue."  </p><p>"Oh, nope. I don't think so." He reached up and grabbed Geralt's hand, and pulled himself to his feet. He was fine, and Geralt was right. Traveling through the bog had been a terrible idea, and he was ready to leave it now. "I'm really feeling much better. Thanks." He stumbled back to his feet, intent on marching back to the shack, grabbing the rest of his things, and getting the fuck out. </p><p>He could go back to Lurch. Geralt could still go to the grove for his special flowers in time. The innkeeper’s wife would have to learn how to share. </p><p>Jaskier made it three steps before wobbling. He’d start on his way just as soon as the vice around his chest released and the dark spots in his vision cleared. Geralt's hand returned to his arm, steadying him.</p><p>The old woman took the pouch--not all of it, Jaskier hoped--and in exchange, Geralt accepted a withered-looking black root that smelled like something had crawled in a hole and died to produce it. </p><p>And then, without even a ‘by your leave,’ Geralt lifted him into the saddle and swung up behind him. </p><p>"We need to leave this place, Geralt."</p><p>"We will, as soon as you're well enough to travel." </p><p>"Was that a curse? Did the old woman curse me? She said the Good Ladies claimed me. What the fuck does that mean?" </p><p>"No. You aren't cursed."  </p><p>"She thinks the crones made me sick, doesn't she?" Jaskier coughed and spat to the side. "Are you in danger, as well?" </p><p>"I'll be fine." </p><p>"And thank gods for that. Am I dying? Corpse-lung sounds serious. She said <em>remains.</em> If I die," Jaskier continued in a deliberately light tone. “Do not leave me in the swamp to rot and be eaten by drowners. Bring my remains to the Pink Canoe Brothel. You remember that one I showed you in Oxenfurt?  They’ve got a lovely garden in the back—” </p><p>"You won't die. You said it yourself. You'll be fine,” Geralt reminded him. </p><p>"Right.” He had been saying that, hadn’t he? But that was before the whole corpse-lung and crone-curse talk. “I’m fine. But if I'm not. Don’t leave me here, please." Jaskier clutched at Roach's mane. Geralt's arm tightened around his chest. </p><p>"I won't need to."  </p><p>They said no more on the way back to the shack. </p><p>Jaskier was not going to die in a shack in the middle of nowhere, where the air perpetually smelled like old farts and over-ripe fruit. When Jaskier’s time to depart this world came, he wanted to go like old Baron Fiddleguddy, riding a fine woman, or man, <em>with any luck both</em>, in a magnificent tide of heart-bursting glory.</p><p>But he still felt cold and nauseous. Invisible belts wrapped around his chest, preventing him from drawing in enough air. Geralt helped him back into the shack to lay down. </p><p>"Rest. I'll brew the remedy and more tea for your fever."  </p><p>Jaskier sat on the bed, head tilted down. He didn't want to rest. Shouldn't have to rest. The old woman's words echoed over and over through his mind. </p><p>It was just bog monsters showing off how they could scare and torment the helpless humans at their mercy. Jaskier refused to give in to it. Sorcerers, mages, witches, and the horrors that roamed the night; they grew more powerful with every life they subjected to their will. But he knew--he <em>knew</em>--there was something monsters feared too. Witchers. </p><p>"What about witchers?" Geralt asked. </p><p>A cool, damp cloth brushed across Jaskier’s brow, and then Geralt placed a hot mug in his hands. "They're afraid,” Jaskier said softly.</p><p>"Witchers are afraid?" Geralt asked. </p><p>"No." Jaskier shook his head tiredly and took a sip. It was thick and smelled like the bottom of an outhouse. Corpse-lung remedy. Not like he expected it to be sweet. He drank it all. The dark area on the floor looked wet again. "Do you see the blood?"  </p><p>Geralt knelt and brushed his fingers over the puddle. His hands should have been covered in blood, but they came away clean. "Old. Only a stain."  </p><p>Jaskier closed his eyes. He didn't want to see the blood. A woman with yellow hair stood looking out the window. He didn’t even bother asking Geralt if she was real. "Someone died here."  </p><p>Geralt placed the mug of remedy aside and passed a cup of tea instead. “Drink this. It should bring down your fever. You're not talking sense." </p><p>Jaskier took a sip. Geralt took back the mug, and Jaskier lay down. "Do I ever talk sense?" </p><p>"Not since I've met you." </p><p>Jaskier watched the woman. She didn’t move from the window. Was she waiting for someone? A lover? Was it her blood on the floor? He fell asleep and dreamed of a young woman with yellow hair. </p><p><em>She leaned over him and asked how long he expected her to wait.</em>  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. She Waited</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Jaskier awoke, the room was dark, save for one lone candle on the window ledge. "Geralt?" Jaskier sat up. Alone. His throat was still lined with glass shards, but the tightness around his chest seemed lighter. </p><p>The candlelight flickered as a shadow passed by outside. One hand braced on the wall, Jaskier stood up. He wore his traveling clothes but didn’t remember putting them on. Boards creaked on the porch.</p><p>Jaskier opened the door and stepped outside. "Geralt?" Another shadow, in the trees. He held up the lantern he didn’t remember picking up. </p><p>The lantern lit the woods around him as he followed the figure away from the shack. He picked his way along the path, careful to avoid the deeper areas of mud and water. </p><p>A gurgle bubbled up from the water to his right. Nothing climbed to the surface. Jaskier stopped. He shouldn’t be out here on his own. The woman stepped out of the shadows, one arm reaching, beckoning forward. </p><p>She called to him. </p><p><em>"Travis,"</em> she said. She floated over the water. </p><p>"Who's Travis?"  </p><p><em>"My love will come.</em>" </p><p>She stopped under an old rotted tree and trailed her nails across the bark. </p><p><em>"Stay with me.</em>"</p><p>Jaskier reached for her hand. Her fingers, cold, brushed against his. Sending a—</p><p>A solid mass hit his side, hurling him into the murky swamp. The lantern sank into the water, and darkness closed in around him. Jaskier lay sprawled while the shimmering outline of a horrifically decayed cloaked woman hovered above him. </p><p>Wraith. Oh fuck. </p><p>"Get back!" Geralt shouted, followed by a blast of air.</p><p>The discharge of <em>aard</em> caught Jaskier and tossed him aside like a limp doll. He had to move. Any direction would do, so long as it was away. His hands clawed into the fetid water but failed to find purchase in the loose mud. The sludge sucked at his arms, embracing, pulling him down. </p><p>The silver blade swept toward the apparition as it shrieked and dissolved into the darkness. </p><p>"Jaskier," Geralt called, his boots sloshing through the water toward him. A firm grip grabbed onto Jaskier’s upper arm and hauled him up.   </p><p>“Did you get it?” Jaskier gasped. </p><p>“It’s gone for now. Let's go.”</p><p>Jaskier twisted to turn back. "Wait, I dropped the lantern." He wore only his shirt and trousers. No cloak, not even boots on his feet. He could have sworn--</p><p>"We don't have a fucking lantern." Geralt pulled Jaskier's arm over his shoulder and dragged him back to firmer ground, back to the shack. </p><p>A roar of flames rose from the fire pit in the clearing as Geralt’s fingers signaled <em>igni</em>. Jaskier shivered as the Witcher ran his hands down his arms, along his back, circled his legs. </p><p>Shivers ran up and down his spine. Geralt’s hands gripped the bottom of his shirt, tugged it up and over his head, off his arms. Next came the clasp on his trousers and<em>Geralt's hands</em>, pushed down, peeling the waistline down over his hips, down to his knees. </p><p>"Sit." </p><p>Geralt tugged Jaskier’s trousers off and tossed them aside. Lovely, now Jaskier was <em>naked and cold</em>. </p><p>Geralt stepped away from the light and returned with a blanket to tuck around Jaskier’s shoulders. "Let me see your hand. No, the other one."  </p><p>The hand the wraith had touched. Jaskier’s fingers looked pale in the light of the campfire. His entire body felt numb from cold. He held out his hand. Geralt’s fingers were rough and calloused but gentle. Geralt ran the pad of his thumb over the tips of his fingers. </p><p>"What do you feel?" </p><p>Jaskier blinked. He'd felt Geralt touch his palm, but nothing above the knuckles. He licked his lips and dropped his gaze to where Geralt ran his fingers over his. "I don't." </p><p>Geralt clenched his jaw. He drew his dagger from his belt, and Jaskier didn’t even think to pull away as the blade made a shallow cut across the pad of his index finger. "The touch of a wraith brings death," Geralt explained. Blood blossomed from the small wound, and Geralt released the breath he’d been holding. “You're lucky it didn't take hold. Just numb. The feeling should return soon.”  </p><p>Jaskier nodded.   </p><p>Geralt dropped his hand. "What were you thinking? Why were you out there?"  </p><p>"I—" Jaskier hesitated, coughed, and tried to find his voice. "I saw someone." He looked toward the shack. The candle still burned in the window, a beacon in the darkness.</p><p>"The wraith?" </p><p>The glass in his throat made it difficult to talk. "A young woman with yellow hair. She led me into the bog. But I had my cloak, my boots. I lost the lantern."  </p><p>"Stop," Geralt ordered and placed his hand over Jaskier’s forehead. Jaskier reached up to touch him, but Geralt pulled away. "You still have a fever. Don't move."  </p><p>Geralt left and sorted through Roach's saddlebag. He poured water into a pot and placed the pot over the fire.</p><p>The brew Geralt made this time tasted stronger than honey and cloves. A numbing sensation spread first through Jaskier’s mouth, then down his throat, soothing. Oh, that was nice. </p><p>"Jaskier, do you still see this woman?"  </p><p>Jaskier glanced toward the trees. “She’s watching us.”</p><p>Geralt followed his gaze and shook his head. "There's no one there. Do you understand?" </p><p>Jaskier glanced at her again. Her mouth moved; she was trying to say something. Maybe if he went closer. But Geralt's hand closed over his arm again to hold him firmly in place.</p><p>"Do not follow anything you see in the woods." Tension filled the Witcher's voice. </p><p>"But she—"  </p><p>"Jaskier." The grip Geralt had on his arm hurt. Geralt let go and instead grasped both of Jaskier’s hands in his. "Please. No matter what you see, no matter what you hear. Do not go in the bog. Promise me." </p><p>"I promise."  </p><p>Jaskier continued shivering despite the heat from the fire. His head bobbed forward with fatigue. Pins and needles covered his hand as sensation returned to his fingers. The supportive weight of Geralt’s arm wrapped around his shoulders and drew him closer. His head lolled to the side, resting on Geralt’s warm chest. </p><p>"I think you're dry now." Geralt's voice was barely a rumble against Jaskier’s ear. He was comfortable where he was and didn't want to move. But Geralt stood, braced Jaskier around his waist, and eased him up to his feet. Geralt led him inside, helped him lay down. </p><p>"I don’t want to die here." Jaskier could barely hear his own voice. </p><p>"I won’t let you." Geralt sat on the floor, his back leaning against the bed, and Jaskier pressed his hand up against his shoulder. </p><p>"Don’t blow out the candle." Jaskier looked up at the window ledge where the candle burned. </p><p>"There's no candle, Jaskier." </p><p>Yes, there was. "He won't know we're waiting for him if it's not lit."  </p><p>"Sleep."  </p><p>He was tired. The yellow-haired woman had followed them into the shack. She sat at the window again, staring out into the dark. And Jaskier closed his eyes and slept. </p><p>… </p><p>Geralt spent the rest of the night on the floor beside Jaskier’s bed. He would not risk another incident. Leaving Jaskier alone to scout the area had been an almost fatal mistake. The woods were silent. He’d driven the wraith off for now. Wraiths haunted the places that had been important to them. They were beings of suffering and anger, filled with resentment toward the living. To annihilate the specter, he’d have to find the remains and burn them. Otherwise, it was bound to return.</p><p>He'd tie Jaskier to the fucking bed next time.  </p><p>Jaskier rarely took ill. He was surprisingly healthy. The villages they crossed were constantly full of people puking and moaning, but Jaskier seldom ever suffered from anything more than a cold. The corpse-lung remedy should have started clearing the congestion in the bard’s lungs by now. Fever and hallucinations weren’t symptoms of the condition. It had to be something else.</p><p>It had to be the bog. Jaskier had mocked the shrine. The fog had come after that. If he put Jaskier on Roach in the morning and rode as far away from here as possible, would that cure him? Or would disturbing the curse kill him?</p><p>Jaskier didn't move for the rest of the night. </p><p>Geralt waited for dawn before leaving his post at Jaskier’s side. Jaskier had spoken of a candle in the window. There was no candle. But Geralt did find a ring of old wax where a candle had once been. He ran his finger over the discoloration. Outside the shack, a dry bundle of flowers rested under the window. He’d dismissed the odd artifact before. Lilies. A flower symbolic for rebirth and renewal. Perhaps it meant something.</p><p>Next, Geralt looked at the woods where Jaskier had consistently seen the vision of the woman. Nothing. He followed it out to where he'd found Jaskier the night before. Where the wraith had touched him. </p><p>He slowly retraced Jaskier’s steps and nearly tripped over an object in the water. Reaching down, he scooped an old rusted lantern out of the mud. He looked around again—the old dead tree. Scratch marks marred its surface. Runic symbols, but eroded, impossible to decipher.</p><p>Geralt crouched at the base. The mud was soft, easy to dig with just his hands. He didn't have to go far. Drowners and other bog creatures had probably made off with most of the remains long ago. But he found a jawbone and a femur. It would have to be enough. He collected what he found and brought it back to the shack. </p><p>When he arrived, Jaskier stood in the doorway, feet bare, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak.</p><p>"You found her."  Jaskier's voice was no more than a whisper, and he walked out into the clearing to inspect the bag Geralt had brought back. </p><p>Geralt placed the items beside the saddlebag and clenched his teeth against yelling at the bard to go back to bed. “Your clothes are dry.” </p><p>The clothes had been laid out on the log by the fire. They were stiff with dirt and mud, but Jaskier shook them out and pulled them back on without complaint.</p><p>"What do you see?" Geralt asked.</p><p>Jaskier’s gaze drifted to Geralt's left. "She's there."  </p><p>"I've been thinking about what the healer told you." </p><p>"About my imminent demise?"</p><p>“‘<em>Leave the remains as an offering at the ruined tower to set the spirit free.’” </em>Geralt quoted. "She didn’t specify your remains. I think the crones cursed you with sight to see the soul haunting this place. The woman is the source of the wraith. If I deliver the bones to the ruined tower, her spirit will be at peace."  </p><p>Relief spread over Jaskier’s face. "She was murdered here. How do we find her killer?"  </p><p>"Justice isn’t required."  </p><p>Jaskier hugged his arms around his chest. "Oh."</p><p>And that alone made Geralt wish justice were a possibility more often. “Find comfort knowing peace can be found in justice's absence. I’ll be back before nightfall.”</p><p>“Can I come with you?”</p><p>Geralt wanted to say yes. “A wraith will fight to retain its hold on this world. You’re linked to her. If you’re present, she'll focus her wrath on you. Stay put.”</p><p>Jaskier finally looked at Geralt rather than whatever apparition was hovering over his shoulder. His eyes were glassy but not delirious. “I’ll bar the door and wait for you.”  </p><p>...</p><p>Jaskier waited. The numbness from the wraith’s touch had left his hand felt unresponsive and clumsy. Jaskier stretched and exercised his fingers, practicing chord placements without strumming. </p><p>Movement outside. It was too soon for Geralt to return. A drowner? Would a drowner try and force open a door? Could he kill a drowner on his own? <em>Not likely. </em>It always looked easy when Geralt did it. The chair wedged against the shack’s door should keep most things out. Geralt had even forced a couple of planks of wood over the window to make the shack more secure. Or had it been to lock Jaskier inside? Good enough for the day. Jaskier hoped he wouldn't have to rely on it overnight. </p><p>So long as he didn’t take too deep of a breath, the urge to cough stayed relatively at bay. The scent of fresh flowers wafted in through the window. Lilies? Jaskier slowly, silently, pulled his boots on. </p><p><em>And no</em>, he told the voice of Geralt already lecturing him in his head. <em>I’m not going into the bog.</em></p><p>He waited for the sounds on the porch to move away and then moved the chair aside. He grasped the dagger Geralt had left and opened the door. Fresh flowers lay under the window. Out in the bog, in the direction he’d seen the woman, a stooped elderly man looked back at him. </p><p>Beside the old man stood the yellow-haired woman. </p><p>Was it real? Did it matter? </p><p>“Travis?” Jaskier called out. </p><p>The old man glared, fist clenched around the rusted yet very formidable axe resting on his shoulder. “How do you know my name?”  </p><p>“She told me.”  </p><p>The old man’s expression twisted, and he moved forward threateningly. He may be old but in a weather-hardened sort of way. Jaskier hadn't thought this through. </p><p>“Who told you?” Travis demanded. </p><p>The name came unbidden to mind. “Ana.” Jaskier stumbled back as the man grabbed his neck and shoved him against the wall of the shack. </p><p>“You’re going to regret messing with things you don’t understand.”  </p><p>Jaskier still held the dagger; he wasn’t defenseless. But pushing a blade into the flesh of a monster trying to drag him to a watery grave was an entirely dissimilar experience than using it on an angry old man made of flesh and blood. "It's not like I want to see her.” He could still talk his way out of this. </p><p>The woman stood behind Travis’s shoulder. Silent. Waiting. </p><p>“She waited,” Jaskier croaked, and the man loosened his grip just enough to allow Jaskier to talk. “Ana waited for you in the cabin. She lit a single candle in the window, and that’s how you knew to meet her here.”</p><p>“How do you know?”</p><p>“I hear her. She’s here, right behind you. She waited. She always waited. Why didn’t you come?”  </p><p>The old man released him, and Jaskier sank down, vision blurring, taking gulps of air.</p><p>“I meant to,” the old man stuttered. He looked around, trying to see what Jaskier saw, but his eyes passed without pause over where Ana stood. “I had nothing to offer her. I wanted to be worthy of her affection.”  </p><p>Jaskier shivered. Ana crouched in front of him. Her eyes were portals to darkness, empty, reaching. He couldn’t look away. “She didn’t care if you were worthy,” Jaskier groaned. His vision shifted, swam, changed. Day became night. Jaskier dropped the dagger and covered his eyes with his hands; it made no difference. This wasn’t his vision. It was Ana’s. “She only wanted you.” </p><p>Ana sat at the window, waiting until she heard footsteps. “She opened the door because she thought it was you,” Jaskier whispered. “But it wasn't. It was—” Oh fuck. He tried to back away as hands grabbed him, forced him to the ground. Pain erupted in his chest as a knife was thrust hilt-deep between his ribs and into his heart. He couldn't fight it. There was no altering what had already happened. </p><p>“All I found was the blood,” Travis said. “If I could find the bastard who—”</p><p>“It’s not about that,” Jaskier said between clenched teeth. And then he understood. Fury. Wraiths were not beings of sadness and longing. They were made of anger and revenge. “Oh no, you have to get out of here. She wanted you to know, needed you to understand.” He tried to get back on his feet, but the pain in his ribs, the blood, it was too much. <em>Not my blood. Not real.</em> But it felt real. </p><p>Ana’s features shifted turned pale and gaunt. Her fingers lengthened into talons as she drifted toward Travis. </p><p>“Ana?” Travis whispered. “Is that you?”  </p><p>The specter shrieked as she reached into Travis’s chest. Jaskier pressed his palms over his ears. The old man screamed and crumpled to the ground. Eyes sightless and open, expression frozen in terror.</p><p>The only sound to penetrate the silence that came after was the thumping of Jaskier’s own heart.  </p><p>“Fuck. Why?” Jaskier stayed on the ground. He brought his knees up, wiped his palms across his face to clear away the wetness there. “He loved you. You didn’t have to kill him. He wasn’t the one who did this to you.” </p><p>The wraith took form again, this time facing Jaskier. Her taloned fingers caressed the bare skin on his arms, leaving bloodless trails in their wake. </p><p>
  <em>I was alone. I waited.</em>
</p><p>The words burned through Jaskier’s mind. </p><p>
  <em>You wait. You squander time. I wanted more.</em>
</p><p>She screamed, a lament of wrath. Jaskier tried to back away as her fingers brushed against his chest. He gasped, unable to breathe as her talons sank into his skin as though he were made of mist. He wasn’t ready. He would never be ready, but he was helpless to stop her. Ice gripped his chest, his lungs froze, and even screaming was impossible. But. The wraith recoiled, she spun, arms flailing against an unseen opponent. </p><p><em>Geralt. Oh fuck. </em>
</p><p>Jaskier forced open his eyes, expecting to see Geralt there. He'd be alright. Geralt had returned to save him. But there was no one. Jaskier didn't want to die alone. He didn't want to think of Geralt returning to find his body. And he couldn't help but think, <em>Geralt is going to be so mad.</em> Why couldn't he have just stayed inside the shack like he'd been told to do?</p><p>But, it was too late. Jaskier couldn't breathe. </p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Together</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt had been prepared for a fight. He swallowed a vial of <em>thunderbolt</em> and oiled his silver sword. Wasting time was not an option. The sooner he could complete the rite, the sooner he could return to Jaskier.</p><p>But the wraith didn’t appear. Geralt placed the bones on the altar of the ruined tower. His medallion hummed with energy, signaling the completion of the ritual. It didn’t appear here, which meant, Geralt had made a fatal error.</p><p>The thunderbolt potion still coursed through his veins as Geralt mounted Roach to gallop back to the shack. He already knew it wouldn’t make a difference. The wraith would have made its stand, and Geralt had left Jaskier undefended.</p><p>The deep knot of dread in the pit of his stomach only increased when the clearing came into view.</p><p>Two bodies lay strewn across the porch of the shack. Geralt dismounted from Roach’s saddle and hesitated. He’d been trained not to falter in a fight. But now, staring at the scene before him, he couldn't move. There was no fight here. </p><p>He’d done what the fucking bog bitches had wanted, hadn’t he? The spirit had been laid to rest. The curse should have lifted. The end. </p><p>But happy endings were for fairy tales.</p><p>Anger rose in his gut; this was all Jaskier’s fault. All those idiotic ballads and sonnets. Stories of triumph and heroism—a load of crap. Destiny shat on everyone. Had he actually started believing Jaskier’s bullshit about the world being anything other than horror and misery? Life wasn’t fair. You could kill as many monsters as you wanted, there were always more waiting. </p><p>This was it then.  </p><p>He didn’t care who the old man was. That body could lay there and rot. </p><p>Geralt finally broke free from his inertia and took a step forward, steeling his resolve for what had to be done next.</p><p>But there. He heard it. A heartbeat. Faint, and slow. It didn’t belong to the old man. Geralt dropped to his knees at Jaskier’s side and placed his hand on the bard’s chest.</p><p>Jaskier’s lips were blue. The skin under Geralt’s hand cold as stone. But it was there, a heartbeat. No mistaking it. “Jaskier.”  Geralt pinched Jaskier’s shoulder to rouse him. No reaction. </p><p>Jaskier’s dagger lay discarded to the side. Habit had Geralt checking for wounds but found none. The old man, eyes wide and mouth open in a grimace of horror, proved similarly unharmed by conventional methods. The wraith had done this. Geralt, alone, was at fault for what happened here.</p><p>A pile of specter dust spread across the ground a few feet away. Geralt pushed the body of the old man onto its back, ripped open the shirt. There it was. A white handprint of bloodless tissue marring the skin over the man’s heart. And Jaskier? Geralt gently lifted Jaskier’s shirt. The same. </p><p>Geralt knew how to kill wraiths, how to release their spirits, how to cure curses and extract monster livers and mutagen essence. </p><p>He would give anything, right now, to know how to save a friend. </p><p>When he moved his hand, he saw that he’d left his own mark on the bard. The area he’d touched seemed less pale than it had before. Geralt brushed his fingers over the spot again, not warm, but less cold.  </p><p>Action, Geralt understood. He unbuckled and shrugged off the scabbards across his back, swept his arms under Jaskier’s knees and neck and lifted him up, burst through the door of the shack, and laid his friend on the bed. He needed to increase Jaskier’s body temperature. </p><p>A gesture of <em>igni</em> toward the old cookstove in the corner of the shack was enough to ignite the fuel within. But that wasn’t enough. He needed to get Jaskier warm <em>now</em>. Body contact was the most expedient method and contact through layers of clothing wasn’t going to be enough. </p><p>He tugged off Jaskier’s shirt and his own and laid down at his friend’s side. </p><p>Surely, if Jaskier were awake to see this, there would be no end to the ribald comments. He lay on his back, tucking himself close beside the bard, and pulled Jaskier up to him. Their chests pressed together, and Jaskier’s head lay cradled on Geralt’s shoulder. He wrapped his arm around Jaskier’s back, holding him close. </p><p>“You can tease me about this all you want after you wake up.”</p><p>The chill of Jaskier’s skin against his own sapped Geralt’s warmth. But that was fine, if it brought Jaskier back to him; he could take the chill for as long as was necessary. </p><p>Slowly, the shack grew warmer with the heat of the stove. Jaskier’s skin began to flush, and the heat between their bodies rose. Geralt counted Jaskier’s heartbeats. His pulse grew stronger, faster. Jaskier’s breathing deepened. His breath felt warm against Geralt’s ear. </p><p>As the sky darkened, Geralt continued holding Jaskier close. He’d hold him until he knew for certain it was safe not to. And sometime in the night, Geralt fell asleep.  </p><p>“Uh, Geralt?” </p><p>The witcher jerked awake, eliciting a startled squawk beside him as Jaskier tumbled from laying sprawled over his chest and onto his back on the bed. </p><p>Jaskier blinked, cheeks pink, and eyes wide. “As much as I think I’ve missed quite a bit and have <em>a lot</em> of questions, there’s something scratching outside the door.”  </p><p>Jaskier wasn’t wrong. Fuck. The gurgling grunts of the creature outside were easy enough to identify. A drowner. Only one. For now, at least. The previous day came back to him—the wraith, thinking Jaskier dead, the old man. </p><p>Geralt had left the dead body on the porch. What the fuck had he thought would happen? He leaped off the bed, though it was still dark with night, the fire in the stove was enough to see by. His scabbards and swords had been left outside. Of all the idiot things to do. </p><p>He grabbed the iron poker from beside the stove and kicked open the door. The drowner crouched over the body, too busy tearing chunks off the corpse with its teeth to acknowledge the very real threat looming over it. </p><p>Geralt swung the iron poker at the monster’s head, sending it flailing backward, away from the shack. That gave him time to reach his scabbards, pull his silver blade, and bestow the finishing blow, taking the creature’s head clean off. </p><p>Geralt listened for more threats. Nothing. There’d been just the one, for now, but there would be more if he didn’t get this mess dealt with.</p><p>It was dawn by the time Geralt got the chance to wipe the filth off his body. He sat on the porch and listened to Jaskier’s faint snores coming from within. Despite his best efforts, the scent of death lingered. He’d be ready this time if more came. Letting his guard down had been a mistake. Nothing excused leaving his weapons outside. </p><p>But he couldn’t bring himself to regret it either, because Jaskier was snoring inside, and if he hadn’t acted as quickly as he had to increase the bard’s body temperature… </p><p>Well. He wasn’t going to think about that. </p><p>Geralt felt drained. The guilt and dread from yesterday gnawed at him. The moment of arriving back at the clearing, seeing the two lifeless bodies strewn across the porch, replayed endlessly through his mind. </p><p>There’d been close calls and injuries in the past. But never like this. He’d never experienced the feeling of thinking Jaskier gone. Dead. </p><p>The sun rose to its zenith. No more drowners emerged from the bog. Floorboards creaked as Jaskier got out of bed. </p><p>“Geralt?” Jaskier pushed open the door and stepped out on the porch. He still had no shirt on. The trousers hung loose and low around his waist. The bard moved slow and released a pained groan as he sat down at Geralt’s side. </p><p>“Go back inside,” Geralt told him. “You need to stay warm.”  </p><p>“Eh, no. Kind of boring in there,” Jaskier’s voice was still rough, but not like it had been.  </p><p>Geralt tensed as Jaskier placed a hand on his shoulder. His <em>bare</em> shoulder. He still hadn’t put on his shirt either. </p><p>Jaskier cleared his throat. “I guess you did the thing with the bones?”</p><p>“It’s done.”  </p><p>Jaskier took a deep breath, then coughed lightly. “The ghost. She was murdered here. Her lover stopped by yesterday. Apparently, she got tired of waiting for him.” He glanced around the clearing.</p><p>“I took care of it.”  </p><p>“Right. Of course.” Jaskier looked into the trees, in the direction he’d seen the spirit so many times.</p><p>“Do you still see it?”</p><p>“No. She’s gone.”</p><p>“The wraith touched you,” Geralt blurted. “You could have died.” </p><p>“But I didn’t. It disappeared before it could…” Jaskier waved his hand in the air. “Thanks for that.” </p><p>Geralt grunted. </p><p>“I meant to ask,” Jaskier said, hand coming up to brush his hair out of his eyes. “The whole cuddling thing.” </p><p>“Your body temperature was too low. Quickest way to warm you up.”  </p><p>“Ha, yes. The old ‘cuddle for warmth’ trick. Exactly. Could we, maybe, do it again?” </p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“I still feel cold. It aches deep inside.” Jaskier rubbed at the pale mark on his chest. “It hurt less when we were—when you were by my side.”  </p><p>Geralt nodded. “Go back inside. I’ll join you soon.”  </p><p>“So, that’s a yes?”</p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>...</p><p>Jaskier went back inside and laid down, trying to ignore the chill spreading within him when Geralt didn’t follow. He’d asked for too much. Geralt’s boots thumped against the old boards on the porch as he stepped away from the shack. Roach whinnied. The low tone of Geralt’s voice spoke back to her, though it was too far to make out what was being said. At least Geralt hadn’t left completely. So Far. </p><p>Geralt didn’t leave. He brought his swords into the shack and placed them beside the bed before sitting down beside where Jaskier lay. “How do we do this?”</p><p>Jaskier wiggled as far as he could to the other side. “Lay down. Just, be beside me?”</p><p>Geralt did as Jaskier asked. Tentatively, Jaskier rolled onto his side. He wasn’t sure where to put his arm. The awkwardness was ridiculous. He and Geralt frequently shared beds at inns. They slept next to each other by the campfire every night on the road. It shouldn’t be so different. </p><p>And yet, it was.</p><p>The advice of his old oratorial instructor came back to him. <em>The stranger you make it, the stranger it will be.</em> <em>Act confident and the audience will trust you</em>. Jaskier let go of the tension in his shoulders, let his arm relax and rest on Geralt’s chest. Geralt brought his own hand up to lay his fingers over Jaskier’s. </p><p>Oh. </p><p>“You won’t make it to the grove if you stay here with me much longer,” Jaskier whispered, his mouth close to Geralt’s ear. </p><p>“It’ll still be there next year.” </p><p>The puff of Jaskier’s breath ruffled the hair on Geralt’s neck. “We could meet up after. Make sure you don’t miss your chance.” </p><p>“I want to bring you,” Geralt insisted and pointedly stared up at the rafters. “The way you experience the world is unique. I want to be with you when you see the grove for the first time.”  </p><p>“Even if I slow you down?” </p><p>“Better slow than alone.” </p><p>Jaskier let Geralt’s warmth ease the ache within him. Was that what he’d been doing every time he’d stayed behind at an inn to avoid becoming a burden? Leaving his friend alone? He often accused the witcher of not listening. It seemed that went both ways. </p><p>Over the next day, Jaskier slowly told Geralt the rest of the story about the wraith. They spent three more days at the hunting shack, much of it laying side by side. “It might take a few days for me to get back to a good traveling pace,” Jaskier warned as they packed Roach’s saddlebags.</p><p>“I’m in no rush,” Geralt answered, and took Roach’s reins so they could walk the path together. </p><p> </p><p>
  
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you to my betas; miah_arthur, handwrittenhello, ButchTheDoggo, and bookscorpion, who helped catch my grammar and spelling mistakes and made the flow of this story so much better.  All mistakes are my own post editing foibles.</p><p>Follow me on <a href="https://mai-of-rivia.tumblr.com/"> Tumblr </a>for Witcher fic-recs, snippets, occasional prompt fills, and just because I love talking about these awesome characters.<br/>If you enjoyed my writing and would like to reblog this story, you can <a href="https://mai-of-rivia.tumblr.com/post/631372201595125760/where-the-hearts-are-rotted-out-by-maimat-taking/"> do so here!</a></p><p>I hope you enjoy! Comment and Kudos? It would really make my day.  ❤</p></blockquote></div></div>
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